By night an atheist half-believes in God.

Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.